


wanna love somebody

by jdphoenix



Category: Agents of S.H.I.E.L.D. (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, F/M, Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-26
Updated: 2016-11-26
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:05:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,096
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8665204
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jdphoenix/pseuds/jdphoenix
Summary: Jemma follows the arm up to the familiar face smiling down at her. She would have preferred the Primitives.





	

**Author's Note:**

> This one's kinda weird. Sometimes, I'll get a prompt for a drabble and decide it'd work perfectly in the same universe as another drabble I'd written before. And sometimes this happens a lot and I end up with whole series of drabbles. (See: the terragenesis series.)
> 
> But in this case I had all the prompts and all the drabble ideas all at once. ~~Sometimes muses are weird.~~ So I'm posting them all together. Each was prompted by an anon and the first three were all for the soulmates meme. As each takes place in a different episode, I've put those numbers next to the prompts in case you can't pick it up from the narrative.
> 
> Also, if you hover over the single-word prompts, you'll see their definitions.

 

 _depth_ (1x22)

 

“Or a monkey,” Fitz says, cutting into her musings on death and the nature of the universe.

Jemma smiles through the tears welling in her eyes. That is just so completely Fitz. She opens her mouth to agree, but what comes out is a hollow cry.

It echoes off the walls of the med pod, aggravating her already pounding head while she curls in on herself.

“Simmons!” Fitz scrambles to her side, arriving just as the initial shock fades. “ _Jemma!_ Are you okay? Are you hurt? What’s wrong?” He makes a worried little noise, no doubt frustrated to have no idea what’s going on.

She forces her head up but, with the pain still echoing in her ribs, allows the motion to carry her back until she’s leaning against the window. “I’m fine,” she sighs. For a moment, she only breathes, letting her eyes unfocus on the length of hazy blue separating them from fresh air. Then, when she knows Fitz must be near to bursting with frantic curiosity, she keeps one arm pressed tight under her breast while her free hand slowly drags up her shirt and sweater, just far enough he can see the edge of the raw patch of skin.

It hurts to bunch the cloth over it - she had no idea how rough this blouse was before - but already the joy in her heart is overpowering the physical hurt.

“It’s a soul mark,” Fitz says, his voice strangely hollow.

She drops her shirt and sweater. She would like to examine it but, even though Fitz is the only one present, it feels wrong. Her soul mark is a private thing, for her and her soulmate only. This is one part of her she won’t be sharing with her best friend.

He’s staring at the spot as though he can still see it. She itches to cover it with a hand again, but resists the urge as she doesn’t want him thinking she’s in pain. She takes his uninjured hand so she won’t be tempted.

“ _Fitz_ ,” she says urgently, excitement bringing a smile to her face. “It’s a _soul mark_. That means I’m going to meet my soulmate.” Once the mark comes in, there’s nothing and no one that can stop two soulmates from having their first meeting and saying those words to one another. It’s - as far as such a thing can exist - destiny.

His hand is oddly lax in hers. His Adam’s apple bobs as he swallows. “Yeah.”

She squeezes, wondering what’s gotten into him. How can he not see…? “That means we’re _getting out of here_.” He still looks drawn, so she throws a glance over her shoulder. “Unless you think my soulmate is that octopus over there.”

His hand falls from hers. “You’re right. There’s gotta be a way out of this, we just have to find it.”

Her happiness over their impending survival drains from her as he stands, leaving her with only the lingering pain and hope of her soul mark. There’s a thought in the back of her mind, an instinct as to why Fitz appears so out of sorts. She doesn’t allow it to form into anything more solid. They have more pressing concerns, and she can see enough of that impending conclusion to know it will only hurt him.

 

 

 _palpatation_ (3x17)

 

Jemma doesn’t reach the jump seats in time and feels her feet leave the floor of the cockpit as Zephyr One plummets back to Earth. The next thing she knows, agony is pulling her from the soft cushion of darkness. Hands press against her neck, her head. The heavy breaths near her ear are May’s. Jemma wants to say something, though her brain can’t wrap firmly enough around the thought to identify it and her tongue is too heavy in her mouth to speak even if she knew what to say. More than she wants to speak though, she wants to drift back into the beckoning dark.

Bright light cuts through her eyelids. May’s found what must be a cracked rib.

“I’m _fine_ ,” Jemma whines. That’s what she wanted to say before.

“Two broken ribs, a minor concussion, and a laceration to the scalp,” says a voice that is not May’s.

The crash. _Giyera_. And didn’t someone say they were falling directly into enemy territory?

“Yes,” the same voice says, though Jemma hasn’t heard a response to her first statement. She struggles to move, but the pain is too intense. A hand settles over her collarbone, stilling her. “Of course,” the woman says solemnly. “It will be done.”

Jemma opens her eyes on a smiling, oval face. Her first impression is that the woman is uncommonly beautiful. Her second, based on the emblem on the jacket she’s wearing, is that she is most certainly not SHIELD.

“Don’t worry,” she says, stroking a hand down Jemma’s face. “It won’t last long.”

She’s right. When the pain in every corner of her body intensifies, it blocks out everything else until she falls back into the dark.

She wakes up back on Zephyr One, with the Inhuman Mack calls Yo-yo smiling at her. “You’re safe,” she says, voice slightly stilted like she’s just learning the language. “She no hurt you again.” She smiles and holds up the hand that isn’t currently supporting Jemma’s shoulder. The knuckles are slightly bloody.

“Thank you,” Jemma sighs, relieved. She means to add a “for getting me out of there” as she can’t imagine what sorts of plans HYDRA would have had for her, but she’s distracted by her ribs.

She touches them gingerly while Yo-Yo moves off to speak with the others. There’s no pain. Not a bit of it. And though her head was pounding not long ago, she can’t even feel the echo of a headache.

They’re lifting off, the cargo bay door closing as they rise up. Jemma catches sight of a figure wearing a black coat watching their ascent and holds back a shudder.

No, she decides as she stands herself, she really doesn’t want to think what HYDRA would have done.

 

 

 _pauciloquent_ (3x18)

 

Jemma struggles against the guard’s firm hold. When the elevator door opens and he jerks her painfully through the doors, she demands yet again that he let her go. She’s not leaving Fitz in this- this _butcher shop_. Radcliffe was willing to allow her to perform _ocular surgery_ on him as a _test_ , who knows what he’ll do to Fitz?

The iron grip around her arm tightens and then tears away so quickly he surely would have dug into her skin if it weren’t for her thick jacket. She stumbles, putting a hand to the wall beside the elevator and turning to see what’s happened. She regrets it immediately.

 _It_ is holding the guard aloft by his neck. The hand digging into the quickly dissolving flesh is raw, giving her a clear view of bones and muscles through the haze of dust ( _sand_ , a small, terrified part of her thinks) that flows from the unlucky guard into him.

The murder lasts only a few brief seconds, passing quickly enough that the unsupported bones fall to the ground as soon as there’s not enough left to hold it by. Jemma imagines the scene will last much longer in her nightmares.

He shifts in her direction. Fear drives her away from the steady wall to the open hallway and hopes of escape, but when his eyes settle on her, she stops dead like a terrified rabbit.

He takes her in slowly, languidly, as though he has all the time in the world to examine his meal before he begins. Outwardly she may be holding still as his gaze slides over her, but every nerve in her body is buzzing in perfect terror. Every nightmare she’s had since Maveth is here and real in this moment. She wants desperately to scream, but the sound threatens to choke her instead. She almost hopes it will; it would save her whatever’s about to happen.

He steps forward and, like a flag waving at the start of a race, it spurs her into motion. “Stay the hell away from me!” she all but growls. She’s quite proud, under the circumstances, of the vicious tone, but whatever strength it gives her flees when her back hits the wall.

He stops. His head tips to one side as he considers her again. There’s something dark and unfathomable in his eyes, something she doesn’t want to think about.

She wonders instead if the space still between them is too much for him to use his powers. She really doesn’t think it is.

The elevator dings. The doors start to close. He slips through at the last moment, leaving her alone with only the corpse of a man whose name she never even knew for company.

She sinks to the floor and doesn’t move until Mack finds her.

 

 

 _throat kiss_ (3x21)

 

Jemma considered going down. Daisy’s in the subbasement, as well as who knows how many other agents. But Daisy is safest in containment. She at least is protected from the parasites that could be in every breath of air. And the agents may not know what is going on, but they’re all experienced enough to recognize the danger. They’ll know to take cover and resist as necessary.

Besides, her scientist mind reminds her, heat rises.

And that has never been made more clear than now, when every breath she takes is more labored than the last and every step higher in the stairwell seems to take more effort.

Perhaps she shouldn’t have turned the heat up _quite_ so high.

But it’s working. Radcliffe’s Primitives - and the unfortunate agents who have joined their ranks - are effectively blind; she’s successfully passed by five so far without detection.

Two more block her way up to the lab level and, rather than wait and risk another bumping into her, she decides to pass through the barracks level.

That, she sees is a mistake as soon as she steps through the doorway.

The Primitives are _everywhere_ here. Down below she only saw one or two, but here there are dozens. They ransack rooms, hunting for agents. Jemma has to close her eyes as St. James and Hernandez are dragged past by their feet. Both are blessedly unconscious; they won’t realize what’s to happen to them until it’s too late.

She makes her way as slowly as she thinks prudent, balancing between her fear that one will suddenly bump into her and the keen way a few of them keep their heads up. They’re learning to listen.

She presses back against the wall, eyeing one in particular who’s broken off from a pack to stand in the middle of the corridor. Only a few more feet and she’ll be at her room. There, she’ll find an ICER and, if it’s absolutely necessary, the pistol May gave her, as well as her trusty stake from Maveth. The small bit of wood won’t do her much good against this enemy, but it will make her feel better to hold it again.

Her shoulder bumps the doorframe and her hand reaches blindly for the handle. Her keycard slips into the slot above like butter. The lock disengages with an electronic chirp.

She forgot the chirp.

The Primitive’s head snaps in her direction. She knows it’s no use, but fear spurs her into the room. The door locks automatically, just in time for a bone-shaking fist to slam against it. The second time, Jemma has to drop her hands. The third, a crack forms in the wood. And the fourth … There is no fourth. A broad hand reaches over Jemma’s shoulder to press against the door, and the pounding ceases.

Reluctantly - because she knows precisely what she’ll find - Jemma follows the arm up to the familiar face smiling down at her. She would have preferred the Primitives.

It- _Hive_ (she will not treat him like the boogeyman, even if he does haunt her nightmares) reaches for her. She flinches away. Pain sparks at the back of her skull when it connects with the wall, but she can’t pay it any mind, not when there’s something far worse standing in front of her.

He tips his head. “I will not harm you.”

Cold fury slides along her veins, chasing away the fear like it never was. “How dare you,” she breathes. “How _dare_ you!” He has Will’s memories - and Ward’s, she hasn’t forgotten that he saw them too, in that tent in England - and must know that those words are precious to her. That he has the _audacity_ to say them is unforgivable.

She lifts one hand to strike him and only knows she’s done it when he drops his head, robbing her of the chance. His fingers pluck swiftly at the front of his shirt. And that’s something too. He isn’t wearing the dramatic coat he’s taken to, only a dark button down.

“Do you remember Bucharest?” he asks.

She thinks of the guard. “Yes,” she croaks. Her hand falls numbly to her side.

“We had already seen, but it was a welcome confirmation.”

“What…?” Between his words and his actions, she’s utterly confused. But then he opens his shirt, and she longs, desperately, to have the confusion back.

Ward’s scars are gone. The ones that were there long before she was his physician as well as those that she apologized over. In their place is a soul mark. She knows it wasn’t Ward’s; firstly because his was on his backside and secondly because his was certainly not in her handwriting. _Stay the hell away from me_ seems to mock her, taking up the whole of her vision.

Hive steps closer to cup her cheeks in his hands. His forehead rests against hers and his breath falls warm over her face.

“I will not hurt you,” he says again. Tears sting her eyes. He can’t be. He _can’t_ be.

But he is. She can feel it. Some part of her she never knew was there has already latched onto him and it won’t be letting go, no matter how much she might wish it would.

“And I will not let you leave me again.”

Her breath shudders out of her, dangerously close to a sob.

He shifts back, dropping his hands presumptuously to thumb her mark through her shirt. It’s not much space, but it’s enough that she can breathe as well as take note of how badly she’s shaking. She can’t say for certain whether it’s down to her fear or the eagerness that curls through her with each brush of his fingers.

He tips his head again, the other way this time. “Your friends, however, I have no such concern for.”

Something in her, something far beneath the waves of physical pleasure his touch is eliciting, slams like the door of a prison cell. She forces herself to meet his eyes.

“You’ll let them go?” she asks, stopping herself just shy of curling her fingers in his shirt. If she touches him, she’s not sure what will happen. “If I stay with you?”

He frowns. “All must feel my peace, Jemma. All must have absolution. It’s why you brought me back.”

She shakes her head in immediate denial. She would _never_ have brought him back and certainly not for that. “I didn’t-”

His hand slips beneath her shirt. “But if you will agree to remain with me, I see no reason to risk SHIELD stealing you away again.”

There’s a question in his statement, one she means to answer with another of her own, but his fingers reach her mark and the direct contact pulls a “ _yes_ ” from her lips before she can hold it back.

He grins in a way that Ward never did and kisses her.

She’s heard stories about how _good_ kissing a soulmate can be. Rumor had it there were whole classes at Ops on how to control those feelings in dangerous circumstances. Jemma always thought that was a tad overblown. Kissing, when one has a decent partner, is plenty good as is, how much better can it be?

Good enough to have her moaning into a monster’s mouth. Good enough to drive every thought from her head but how to best keep the established amounts of physical contact while still removing clothing.

She pushes him back towards her bed. He goes willingly, falling to sit on its edge without protest and tugging her into his lap. She works to get his shirt over his shoulders while he tears at her blouse. Finally, in frustration, they break the kiss just long enough that she can pull it and her bra over her head. It takes maybe three seconds. That’s four too many.

She kisses him this time, pressing her palm flat over his mark to force him down. It earns her an almost pained grunt and she pulls away to enjoy the sight of his neck arching along with the rest of him. His every muscle has gone taut with desire. For her.

Her touch-drunk brain clears enough that she thinks proudly of bringing the monster from her nightmares to this point, but not clearly enough to stop her pressing kisses to his neck as he relaxes.

She’s leaving her second mark on that unfairly unblemished skin when his fingers dig almost painfully into her hair, forcing her to look at him.

“I meant what I said.” His hand covers her mark again and this time she lets out a whine. She shouldn’t, but she wants to touch him and be touched. She wants his hands on every inch of her. She wants him inside her. And, with the way he’s holding her, she can’t initiate any of that contact she so desperately needs. “You will not leave me. Never again.”

If she tries to speak, she’s sure it will result in an even more embarrassing cry, so she shakes her head as far as his grip will allow. It loosens, just a little, but his hard eyes still hold hers. “I won’t,” she whispers and truly means it. How could she ever leave him when every cell in her body, every fiber of her being wants nothing more than to be with him?

He pulls her down for a punishing, mind-wiping kiss.

It’s not until later, when she turns in her sleepy daze and sees the crack in her door, hears the utter silence from every corner of the Playground, that she realizes she should have run when she had the chance.

 


End file.
